


Good With Words

by Jalules



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Character Study, Crushes, Flirting, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Past Violence, Pre-Relationship, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, nonsense school assignments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-17 01:07:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1368328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jalules/pseuds/Jalules
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is not taking an unnecessary science-fiction and creative writing based English elective because he wants to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good With Words

.

.

.

Stiles is not taking an unnecessary science-fiction and creative writing based English elective because he wants to. He’s taking it because his English teacher last year bullied him into signing up for another class, despite the fact that he doesn’t need it to graduate and he could just as easily be sleeping through a study hall every 8th period of his senior year.

But since every other English elective looked like real work, a real bore, or both, he signed on for Science Fiction and Creative Writing. He still doesn’t understand why the two subjects are shoved together into one curriculum, but there you have it.

And it’s not like he hates the class or anything. He likes science fiction, in theory, though reading books from the 1950s about robots and dystopian futures is different than powering through seasons of Star Trek for fun. He doesn’t necessarily like creative writing, and he doesn’t think he’s very good at it, but it involves a lot of ideas, and he’s always been an idea guy.

All in all it’s not the worst way to spend forty minutes, and the grading is pretty lax compared to some of the other bullshit classes he’s had to take in his public schooling experience, but it’s still a pain in the ass to be responsible for a class that he doesn’t even need to graduate.

It’s even more of a pain in the ass because the teacher is kind of bizarre, a woman who wears business blazers with long, floral patterned skirts and takes everything way too seriously, all while somehow managing to be lackadaisical about lesson plans and what she describes as, with air quotes, “feelings.”

She offered, on the first day of class, that rather than talk out their “feelings,” if anyone had something they wanted to discuss, they could give it to her in writing. She’d give bonus points for personal essays, even.

Stiles definitely doesn’t want to talk about his “feelings,” or his feelings, the real ones, with much of anyone. Especially not his high school English teacher. If he had anything to share, he’d be sharing it with his friends. All of whom are not in his class.

Because of course Scott decided to take an elective that required he read the most classic literature (yawn,) which he’s been really into ever since he decided he could apply himself to both his studies _and_ his heroic werewolf duties. And of course Lydia’s schedule is so full of science and math that she can’t even look at another English course, and-

And well. Those are all of his friends.

Anyone else he regularly spends time with might be pack, but they’re not exactly the kind of people he wants to sit with at lunch and pair up with for homework assignments. Even considering Lydia as someone who falls into friend territory is dangerous. He’s only just gotten used to her not ignoring him or outright disliking him, and he keeps thinking she’ll come to her senses at any minute and tell him to leave her alone. He wouldn’t blame her, after everything that’s happened.

Anyone else he could have become friends with is gone.

So that’s why he’s in a class with no friends.

In fact, the only person he really knows in class is Danny, and he just barely puts up with Stiles most of the time. The rest of the chairs in the room are filled by overachieving juniors, a few kids he’s seen around but never gotten to know before, and a pair of guys who managed to _not_ graduate last year when they should have.

So when their teacher thumbs through their latest essays and makes a face like she’s been sucking lemons, complaining that to keep their essays fresh they all need to “beef up” their adjective skills past the third grade level they left them at, that today’s assignment will be devoted to doing just that, and that they’ll all need to partner off to do so, Stiles looks immediately to Danny.

Then he tries to get out of the work.

“Shouldn’t we save that for the creative writing portion of the class?” He asks, without permission.

He gets the lemon sucking face directed at him, a picture of disapproval, then a shake of the head. He looks back to Danny, who knows damn well he’s staring at him and is doing a stand up job of pretending to listen for instructions. Or maybe he really is listening. He’s good like that.

Their teacher (he seriously needs to learn her name, he knows it’s long and hyphenated and at one point she told them all to just call her Sharon but he’s not going to do that) instructs them all to pair off. They are to choose three adjectives to describe their partner and write them down. Then they are to consider synonyms for those three adjectives, and write down ones they think are improvements on the first word choice. She’s looking for creativity here! It’s okay to start simple, but think outside the box! Talk it out and decide what words _really_ represent each other. She’ll collect them at the end of class. Discussion is encouraged, goofing off is not. This _will_ be graded. Yes, physical descriptions are okay. No Stiles, she is not worried about sexual harassment issues coming up between classmates she should not _have_ to worry about that. Yes, those three girls who always work together because there’s an odd number of students can work together again. No, you don’t have to write in pen. Yes, you can borrow pencils.

The next few minutes are a chorus of desks screeching and people chattering as the class rearranges into partnerships, notebooks out. Mrs. Whatever-hyphen-Her Name Is sits down at her own desk and continues grading their disappointing essays.

Stiles strongly suspects this assignment is just an excuse to give her free time to grade papers.

“I strongly suspect this assignment is just an excuse to give her free time to grade papers,” He stage-whispers to Danny, who has not so much agreed to work with him as he didn’t move his desk away when Stiles scooted up close and parked himself in partnership distance.

“Are you actually complaining about what’s basically a free period?” Danny counters, rolling his eyes, and Stiles gapes at him, exasperated.

“It’s not a free period if you have to work,” He argues.

Danny shrugs. He pulls a pen out of the front pocket of his backpack and puts it to paper, not writing anything, just holding it there, “I don’t think this counts as work. Are you going first, or am I?”

“You should go first,” Stiles says, although he doesn’t know why one of them has to go first rather than just working at the same time, “I’m not good with this kind of thing.”

Danny gives him a disbelieving look, “But you’re good with words.”

Which Stiles thinks is probably just a nice way of saying that he talks a lot, but makes him squirm a little in his chair in discomfort at the near-compliment, “Nahh…” He says, which makes him sound stupid, which he also happens to feel right now, “You go first. Show me how it’s done. I bet you’re a poet.”

Danny does not say that he didn’t even know it, which is what Stiles was hoping for. What he says is, “This isn’t poetry.”

He looks slightly irritated, which is the way Stiles has grown used to seeing him, and it’s somewhat satisfying. It proves he’s making an impact, getting a rise, which is enough to keep him content. It’s some kind of attention, at least, and he’s self-aware enough to know that’s what he craves just about as much as air itself.

He read something once, about Aries children having a desperate need for attention, and he’s never been super into astrology, but he brought it up with his dad one night anyway and the poor guy just looked up at the stars like you, you did this to me.

Stiles half-expected him to shake his fist at the celestial heavens. What he actually did was give Stiles an affectionate pat on the shoulder, which was probably a lot better for his emotional well-being. He doesn’t know why he expects the worst of people. He considers himself an optimist, mostly. It’s different when it’s a personal thing.

He wonders what Danny’s sign is. Like, he’s pretty sure the guy’s birthday is in February, but he can’t totally remember and now it’s going to bug him for eternity. He should just ask, probably, and he looks up to do so, breath sucked in as a precursor to a question.

Danny’s staring at him like he’s waiting for something, and Stiles startles, realizing he’d gotten distracted. Aside from a frivolous question he doesn’t actually have anything to say though, so he just smiles, wide and encouraging, and shrugs his shoulders, pointlessly, compulsively.

Danny looks away, shaking his head, and writes down three words in fast, slanting script.

He looks back up at Stiles, smirks (probably because his mouth is hanging open shit he’s got to stop doing that he is _never_ going to be able to stop doing that,) and puts his pen down.

“Okay,” He says.

“Okay?

“Your turn.”

Stiles leans away, taken aback, “You’re not even gonna tell me what you wrote? What did you write?”

“It’s your turn,” Danny reminds him, but Stiles is having none of it.

“I know, I know, but tell me what you wrote first. You’re supposed to be showing me what to do.”

“This is middle school stuff, Sitles, come on. Three words to describe me.”

Stiles groans, overdramatic. He makes a flippant gesture with one hand and says, “I don’t know, man. Tall, dark, and handsome? I told you I’m bad at this. What did you write?”

Danny half-laughs at the generic choice of words, but doesn’t argue against them. Stiles would defend the phrase, if he made a thing of it. It might be generic, but the words are still true, and they play right into the joking sort of fake flirting thing the two of them have had going on since before he can remember.

He can hear the rest of their class chatting around them, throwing out words, seemingly random, and none of them seem to apply to him, can’t be what Danny has written.

“Did you say I was lanky? I won’t be offended, dude, a lot of people describe me as lanky. Also pale. Helpless, maybe. Pathetic has been thrown around a few times.”

“I don’t think you’re pathetic, Stiles.”

“Well then what do you think I am?”

Danny tips his head back, sighing, and Stiles has seen this look before. After years of sideline irritation, he knows Danny’s breaking point all too well.

“Fine,” Danny says, tense, and fires off his three words, quick, without a second thought, “Fidgety, clever, angry.”

They aren’t what he expected. They make sense though. They’re good words. Except-

 “I’m not angry!”

He said that way too loud. The three girls who always work together are looking at him funny.

Danny winces with what is possibly second-hand embarrassment, but could also be _first_ hand embarrassment. Usually Stiles gets a mildly sadistic thrill out of embarrassing Danny; he always looks funny when he’s all flustered but trying to keep it cool. But this is not so entertaining. He feels a little offended, to be honest, and he’s not even sure why. He was only expecting lanky and pathetic, and angry has got to be better than that.

“You shout a lot,” Danny offers by way of explanation.

Which is…technically true. He does shout a lot. Stiles makes a conscious effort to shut his mouth, pressing his lips thin and frowning.

Shouting doesn’t always mean angry. It’s just that he needs to be heard above the noise. He has points to make, things to bring to people’s attention. He has to stand his ground when other people try to talk him down. He gets overexcited and upset and then there’s the anxiety, and that usually turns him inward, keeps him quiet, but when he gets too frustrated he starts to shout, pissed off at himself, at everybody.

Okay, so maybe he is angry, Or, definitely angry, actually. A lot of the time. About as much of the time that he’s really pleased or amused, in fact, which is also…often.

He doesn’t know _why_ he’s so angry.

Or, actually, scratch that. He knows exactly why he’s angry.

Because people don’t take him seriously enough. Because his _dad_ doesn’t take him seriously enough. Because time always moves too slow, or too fast. Because he’s never worked up the nerve to kiss someone first. Because he forgets important things sometimes and screws himself over. Because people shout at _him_ and then he shouts _back_ and then it’s a shouting match and he never meant to get so loud.

Because his best friend has what are essentially super powers and he is both slightly jealous and extremely sympathetic. Because he’s tried to save a lot of people and only _actually_ saved a handful, which should still be awesome, but makes him feel like shit.

Because the girl he had a crush on for years and years and _years_ is way too good for any of the shit she’s had to deal with and he knows it’s not his job to help her through it but he _wants_ to help but he knows he’ll come off as a jerk because he _is_ kind of a jerk even if he doesn’t _mean_ to be and he wishes that wasn’t a thing that happened because he just wants to make sure she’s _okay_ and he’s had some fucked up stuff happen to him in the last few years too so maybe they can relate to one another. Because he’s done things that he didn’t ever want to do and they make him sick to his stomach.

Because he lost his favorite watch the other day. Because he lost his mom years ago and her absence still aches. Because he’s in a class he doesn’t need to take with a teacher he doesn’t like and no friends except for Danny Mahealani who doesn’t even like him that much.

Probably that’s why he’s angry.

He didn’t think anyone really noticed. But of course Danny would notice. He pays attention. He hears everything.

Stiles sucks in a breath and holds it, cheeks puffing out as he processes, reevaluates.

“It’s not a bad thing, necessarily,” Danny reasons. He looks slightly apologetic, shrugging as he says, “I think you use it constructively,” He shrugs and adds, “You know, most of my ex-boyfriends had anger issues.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows at that, speaks softer on purpose, “I don’t suppose that’s why they’re _ex_ -boyfriends, is it?”

Danny grins at that, “And that’s why you’re clever. Fidgety should be obvious.”

Stiles grins back, shifting in his seat just enough to prove the point.

“Your turn,” Danny says.

“What now?”

“Tall, dark, and handsome isn’t going to cut it. Though I appreciate the compliment.”

“Oh, right.”

The assignment.

Stiles looks down at his own notebook, the page he’s supposed to be filling with interesting synonyms, and he’s drawing a blank.

He has no idea how to describe Danny.

Which is weird, because he’s pretty sure he’s described Danny before, in spoken word. Danny is…what? He’s nice. Smart. Gay.

But none of those words are good enough. Sure, Mrs. Bullshit-Assignment said they could start simple, but it seems almost insulting to try to describe Danny in such basic terms. Besides, he figures Danny wouldn’t appreciate being completely defined by his gayness. Stiles knows he wouldn’t appreciate someone putting that much focus on his own sexuality, especially since he isn’t totally sure what it is yet.

He knows Danny is more than just nice and smart and gay. He wishes he knew Danny better, actually. Beyond the snarky comments and the fake flirting, that is.

Stiles stalls. He asks, “ _Is_ that why they’re your ex-boyfriends? The anger issues?”

It’s part-teasing and part-honest curiosity. Danny seems to get that, and only hesitates a moment before answering, “More like, an array of emotional issues. None of them knew how to use their anger constructively.”

He grins, eyebrows raised suggestively, and Stiles can feel a flush creeping up his neck. Fake-flirting aside, Danny’s actual seduction skills put his own to shame. He’s been on the receiving end of quite a few predatory glances in his life, and the look Danny likes to turn on him is not entirely unlike those.

Not. That he thinks Danny is trying to seduce him. It’s just that, he’s naturally seductive, whereas Stiles is naturally Stiles.

He’s tempted to ask Danny what his idea of a good use of anger is, keep the joke going, but he’s afraid that might be edging a little too close to sincere innuendo. He doesn’t want to confirm his own fears of sexual harassment issues by saying the wrong thing.

Maybe he’s just predisposed to have his mind in the gutter.

“So about those three words,” Danny reminds him, and Stiles flails back to action.

“Three words, right, three words. Three of them. Got it. Got ‘em right…here,” He taps his pen against his notebook, where there is still nothing, then against his head instead, where there is an invisible chance of finding something useful. He has a feeling he just got ink on his forehead. He swipes his hand across the skin, just in case, and has no idea whether he made it worse or better, or if there was anything there in the first place.

That notebook page is still blank.

“Stiles,” Danny says, and his tone sounds warning, but he really doesn’t even look annoyed. He’s still smiling, actually, “You’re overthinking.”

He’s right. Absolutely right. Stiles is definitely overthinking, and Danny can tell because he’s a freakin’ genius. He tries to follow Danny’s example, putting pen to paper and writing fast, the first three words that come to mind.

He gets two, pauses, groans internally in frustration and it sort of come out as an audible noise too which is awful, and scribbles the last word before dropping his pen, “There.”

That’ll do.

“Well?”

Stiles leans back in his chair like he’s scored a victory, actually accomplished something, “Likeable, perceptive, and...handsome. Yeah, I’m keeping handsome and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

He points at Danny, finger-gun style, winks, and that gets an eye roll in response. Danny is still smiling though, and it’s fuel for Stiles’ antics.

“So, synonyms,” Danny says, which should be the cue for Stiles to sober up, but somehow it doesn’t kill the mood. They quickly settle into a cycle of thinking, writing, sharing, and stupid comments (mostly Stiles’, but Danny can hold his own in a snappy dialogue showdown,) and no one even tells them off when Stiles gets a little loud.

Danny comes up with cunning, antsy, and aggravated.

Stiles writes down appealing, insightful, and striking.

Danny tries to shoot down that last one, saying that handsome and striking have always seemed like two different concepts to him, but Stiles keeps it anyway.

Then he writes down about ten more synonyms for ‘handsome’ because they’re easy, and reading them off makes Danny laugh, and Danny fits the descriptions he’s writing especially well when he’s laughing.

By the end of class they’re making up words, sitting closer than Stiles would have expected when he first dragged his desk over, and snickering between themselves. He’s half-sure they’re going to get failing grades on this bullshit assignment, since they only came up with a handful of real words between them, but it’s busy work and it’s their senior year and they _don’t even need this class to graduate._

“I’m going to change all your adjectives to ‘jerk, jerk, and jerk,’” Danny says flatly, making Stiles beam with pride.

“No points for repeat words,” Stiles insists. He thinks this is the first conversation he’s had in about two years that didn’t have _something_ to do with werewolves. It’s kind of nice. He might have to steal the seat next to Danny’s from now on, because somehow he doesn’t think anyone will appreciate him dragging his own over here every day to harass him. He hopes Danny won’t mind, “And while you’re at it you might as well change them all to synonyms for hurt, ‘cause I am _wounded_ right now.”

Danny scoffs dismissively, “Oh please. You’re heartless.”

And then Stiles really is kind of hurt. Only kind of. Because Danny doesn’t know that he actually did spend some time being heartless, that it was the worst experience of his life, that he still has nightmares about it and probably always will. As far as he can tell, Danny doesn’t know anything about the other side of things in Beacon Hills, and that’s more unfair to Danny himself than anything else.

He considers the possibility of having conversations with Danny that _are_ about werewolves, and makes a mental note to run the idea past Scott later. Eventually. Someday. Whenever the guilt eats at him enough.

For now he puts on a strained smile and scrawls his name at the top of his paper. Class is nearly over, and everyone is starting to collect their things and give up on work. He follows their example, tearing the sheet of loose leaf he’s been writing on out of his notebook to hand in.

“Danny boy,” He says, “You make a fine English partner, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Danny says, and that makes Stiles’ stomach flip worse than any of the fake-flirting has so far.

If this keeps up he might have some “feelings” to discuss soon after all.

“Why are you taking this class anyway?” Stiles asks, switching to a whisper as their teacher stands up and requests that all their assignments be left on her desk in an orderly pile on their way out.

Danny doesn’t answer, only shrugs noncommittally. He sets his paper aside and starts organizing his things, getting ready to leave. Once his backpack is over his shoulder, he turns halfway in his seat, facing Stiles, who hasn’t quite stopped watching him.

“How would _you_ describe yourself?” He asks, and Stiles pulls a face, nervous. He wants to play it off as a joke, but Danny sounds serious, looks interested. He can’t remember Danny ever looking so invested in anything he had to say, and in the moment it feels revolutionary.

“In three words?” He laughs.

“However many you need,” Danny says, though he looks cautious. He’s well aware what a dangerous offer unlimited words are to Stiles.  

“I’m…jeez,” Stiles starts, sighs instead. He claps his hands together, holds them there to keep from drumming his fingers nervously against his leg, against the desk, against Danny’s desk, against Danny’s forearm which is within reach and therefore fair game.

If he had to describe himself, what words would he choose?

He can think of a hundred and five offhand, but none of them are things he _wants_ to think of himself as. He doesn’t want to be afraid. He doesn’t want to be guilt-ridden. He doesn’t want to be awkward or uncomfortable or unworthy.

He _wants_ to be a good person, a good friend, a hero and a winner. He wants to be skilled and successful and attractive and smart and powerful but that last one freaks him out a little too, brings him back to afraid, which he really doesn’t want to be.

Sarcasm is his favorite, but not his only defense, and while he’s still pale as hell and fragile for sure, he passed the 147 pound mark last lacrosse season. He doesn’t make a very good Batman, or a good Robin at all, and at this point he’s not so sure he would want to be that kind of crime fighter anyway.

He’s nothing special.

He is…clever. He’s fidgety. And he’s angry. Danny had it right.

But he can’t parrot it back. It’s a cop out answer, feels half like hubris and half like a confession.

“I’m an average guy,” He says quietly, a little embarrassed.

Danny stares at him, looks like he’s thinking hard about something, considering. He looks vaguely pitying, and that’s unacceptable.

So Stiles grins, cocky, kidding, says, “I’m just this guy, you know?”

The bell rings, sends the majority of the class scurrying up to the teacher’s desk and out the classroom door. Danny stands up too, steps away from his desk as Stiles scrambles to gather his things.

“Sure thing, Zaphod,” He says, and Stiles nearly drops his entire notebook upside-down.

Danny got his reference. Danny _responded_ to his reference! Which, he realizes even as he’s grinning in embarrassment at his own geekiness, is probably why Danny is taking an unnecessary Sci-Fi and Creative Writing class.

Stiles is still smiling as he shoves his notebook under his arm, ignoring the stray papers sticking out at the sides. Danny is still standing by his desk, assignment in hand, and it strikes him suddenly that he’s _waiting_ for him. The concept is even more foreign than the fact that he and Danny just had a class-length conversation where no one was in danger of dying, that half of it was awfully close to real flirting, that Danny got his stupid nerd reference and maybe thought it was funny.

“For the record,” Danny says, and Stiles couldn’t look away if he tried, following Danny up to the front of the room to drop off their assignments, holding himself tense for what other surprise might come out of the guy’s mouth and catch him completely off guard, “I like average guys.”

He heads for the door, waits there patiently again as Stiles remembers to breath and walk at the same time, to close his mouth which has fallen open. He waits till Stiles is close, right in the doorway, to lean over and whisper, “Less fangs involved.”

They walk to gym together, though Stiles can’t imagine how, since he’s pretty sure his entire brain has already imploded in shock.

“You don’t have gym this period,” Danny reminds him, halfway to the locker room.

“I don’t have fangs,” Stiles says, because it’s the only thought he’s been able to fully form for the past few minutes.

“I know you don’t, Stiles,” Danny agrees. He puts his hand on Stiles’ shoulder, gently redirects him down the hallway, away from the gym class he doesn’t have, “See you in sci-fi tomorrow.”

He’s smiling as he says it, and Stiles nods, quick and eager. He wants to apologize for not being upfront about all the werewolf stuff, and then he wants to thank Danny for all the weird roundabout compliments, and _then_ he wants to ask if he’s been accidentally actually flirting with someone who really was possibly flirting with him for the past three years, but it all seems out of place for the moment.

He consoles himself with the fact that he’s got time to catch up with Danny, get to know him better. They’ve got a whole year left to blow off an unnecessary English class together, and provided he doesn’t get bitten or possessed or cursed or some other goddamn thing, that’s plenty of time for Stiles to prove just how average he is.

.

.

.


End file.
